


ain't seen the sunshine

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Dirty Talk, Humanstuck, M/M, Prison Sex, Slurs, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know his first name. Nobody's used it in the couple months you've been here. The other inmates call him "Bro," the wardens call him "Strider," and the first time he pinned you to the mattress he told you that you could call him "Daddy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't seen the sunshine

After the first couple weeks you stopped counting how long it had been. You got used to the idea that this was going to be the longest year and a half of your life and counting days wasn't going to make it go faster. Now when the lights go out all you think is _one more down_. You don't relax, though. Not yet.

And there's why: five or six quiet breaths later, the shitty mattress dips as your cellmate climbs into your bunk. "Hey, kitten," he says, which is usually what he calls you when he's not pissed.

You don't know his first name. Nobody's used it in the couple months you've been here. The other inmates call him "Bro," the wardens call him "Strider," and the first time he pinned you to the mattress he told you that you could call him "Daddy."

"Hi," you say, and you lean back into him. You know how this goes and you know how to make it suck less.

At least, usually you do. He pulls your boxers down and his dick is right there, pressing into the crack of your ass like he's planning to go in dry. You struggle, try to squirm away from him. "What the fuck?" You can't be out of lube already. When you blew that stuck-up douche in the infirmary for it, you made damn sure you were getting a full tube out of the deal.

Strider's hands clamp down on your wrists and you're reminded again that he's made pretty much entirely out of muscle and prison tattoos. "You think you were being subtle today?" he growls in your ear. "I saw you trying to get Cal to jump on you out in the yard. If you're going to act like a bitch, I'm going to treat you like one."

Panic washes over your skin, churns in your gut. "I didn't—" His hands tighten enough to bruise. Sure, okay, you'll admit you thought it would be hot if Cal came after you and Strider got up in his face about it, but come on.

"You're a hot piece of ass, kitten, but you're not worth a week in solitary," Strider says. You flinch. You've been getting an unpleasantly clear picture of what you're worth in Skaia State Pen over the last few months.

He's not fucking you yet, though, and that means you can bargain. You're good at bargaining. "I'm sorry," you start, because that's always something people want to hear, and also, "I won't do it again," same deal. From there it's, "Come on, Daddy, let me make it up to you," as you try to get yourself turned around while he still has you pinned.

"Yeah?" he says. "Why should I? What can you give me that I can't just take?"

Hating him is a hot liquid jolt down your spine, and because you're fucked up it ends up as a pulse of blood rushing to your cock. "You don't want to do it dry," you say, coaxing, wheedling. "Can't hardly move like that, right? Lemme suck it for you."

Strider hums like he's considering it. "What was that last part?"

You squirm, mostly trying to rub yourself on the sheets like the wreck you are. "Lemme suck it for you, Daddy."

He grinds against your ass, and you'll take that as a compliment. "Louder."

"Fuck," you whine, because you know exactly what that's about: you can stay quiet and limp for the next three days, or you can let everyone hear you and maybe be more comfortable. You squeeze your eyes shut. There's really only one choice you'd make, and Strider probably knows it.

"Please let me suck your dick, Daddy," you croon, and your goddamn traitorous dick throbs. "Come on, let me have that big thing, I'll suck it so good," and if your hands were free you think you'd probably be jerking off already.

Something clangs on the bars down the row, and Cal yells, "Shut up, you fucking faggot!"

You pause, letting Strider give you the next cue. Cal's an asshole and pretty dangerous but keeping him happy can't be your first priority. 

"Yeah, get down there," Strider says, loud enough to match you. "Make everybody happier to get your mouth full." He lets go, rolling off you, and your cheeks burn as you scramble down the bunk to do it. Cal's calling Strider names as you lick your lips, and then you have a hand in your hair and a dick in your mouth and fuck the rest of the cellblock, basically.

Strider's got a big dick, bigger than yours, and you hate him a little for that, too. You've learned more about sucking dick in the last month than you ever wanted to know, most crucially the fact that when he hits the back of your throat and makes you choke, your balls draw up tight and you feel hot all over. You jerk yourself while Strider fucks your face, going deep like that over and over while you gag around him and get him slicker. You don't want any of this shit, except for how you obviously do because you're about ready to cream yourself over it, and when he hauls your head back you go crawling back up where he can reach you without needing to be told.

His weight presses you down into the mattress, heavy and hot, and it still feels like he's splitting you in half, even though you know it would have been worse dry. He doesn't tell you to make noise, just groans into your nape as he gets his hips flush with your ass. You hide your face in the pillow and try to ignore the way you're shaking. You just gotta keep breathing. You'll get through this.

"There you go, that's my kitten," Strider breathes in your ear. "Don't go looking for trouble, yeah? Keep your head down in the yard and your legs spread in here and you'll be fine."

Of all the stupid shit, _that_ makes your flagging hard-on stiffen back up. You nod once: you know that's what you gotta do. There are tears at the corners of your eyes, stupid physical reflex between having your throat pounded and the pain of getting fucked—which isn't actually that serious, for fuck's sake, you've had your nose broken before and didn't cry, but this for some reason is the pain you can't handle.

Strider pushes his hand between you and the mattress, reaching for your dick. You hate that he always finds you hard, because that means it's okay that he's doing this. But you make a tiny noise in your throat all the same as his hand starts to pump you. He doesn't thrust much, which keeps it from burning too bad but means you're constantly full, so stuffed with his dick it feels like you can barely breathe. He rocks inside you, jerking you off, and you pant helplessly into the pillow and take it.

His teeth graze the back of your neck and then you feel his breath, hot on your skin, as he asks, "How about it, kitten? This sweet little hole need to get pumped full of come?"

You grit your teeth. There's only one right answer and you know it. You turn your head so you can get the words out: "Yeah, Daddy, give it to me, c'mon, shoot your load up my ass," and you are not thinking about the hard shiver that runs through you when you say that or the fact that he can feel how you're reacting. He doesn't make you repeat _that_ louder, thank god. "Come on," you chant, "come on, come on, do it," and you're a mess—you want to come, you want him to come, you want him to stop, you want to ride this feeling right to the biggest crash of your life. When he comes you feel the short, sharp shudder that runs through him, and the way his dick twitches, and you hate him all over again.

He doesn't pull out, just rolls you both onto your sides while he's still balls-deep in you. He picks up the pace jerking you off and you figure that's got to be part of his power trip, too, making sure you come while he's up your ass. You'd be stupid to fight him. So you don't—you rock into his hand as much as you can stand, encouraging him to go faster, trying to get through what you can't get out of.

You sob when you come, but only once, and quiet enough that you don't think anyone outside the cell heard you. It's kind of a shitty orgasm, as much as that's a thing. You're still shaky at the end of it.

Strider pulls out and you wince; you're not going to enjoy sitting down to breakfast in the morning. He smacks your ass casually, almost fondly except that he's such a shithead. "Sleep well, kitten," he says. "We're going to get along better from here, yeah?"

"Yeah," you say. You get the message: don't go _making_ trouble for him to protect you from. "Night, Bro."

He swings up to the top bunk and leaves you there: sweat-sticky, your asshole aching, your pride bruised. You turn over in place, careful not to roll into the wet spot, and pull your boxers back on. You're not counting the days. But that's one more down.


End file.
